Dear Mr. Deprado,

It was just my birthday, and while I like to think that I am far from old, there is a simple truth that time is a flood we can’t control. The best thing we can do is learn to swim well. Not just well, but strong. I want to be a powerful swimmer. I want to be the kind of swimmer who rescues others as I plunge down the torrent. I am fine with the flood, or at least, I am learning to be fine. Sometimes, I can even keep my head up long enough to see down to where I might be in the distant future.

The other night I was in a restaurant and I watched an elderly couple dine together. The place was hip–giant canvasses on the walls depicted half-headed torture victims, monkeys with wings, and landscapes full of wheat blowing in the wind. It was all very random, but the most random thing was the way this old couple ate their meal like they were completely oblivious to the hip-hop grooves pumping vibrantly from ultimate surround sound. I was at the bar, and I watched them in the mirror, the way their faces reflected in the various bottles of tequila. It was as if they were scooped out of an elegant hotel restaurant, or some fine dining establishment. They said nothing to each other. He purposefully cut his steak at just the right angle while she daintily sipped her soup from its cup. I wondered what could have ever brought them to a restaurant like this when I, probably fifty years their junior, didn’t even want to be here.

It reminded me though that the journeys down the river are our own, and it reminded me of a time, when I worked at the restaurant, where it first became clear to me that we decide how much fullness we want to grab on to, how strongly we want to swim.

Restaurant Journal October 12

They settled into their chairs. She had an ancient look: silver hair in waves to her shoulders, and a red, pearl necklace. She was thinner than I wanted her to be. A woman like her, I thought, should be more jovial, should carry more weight. When I gave them bread, they looked at me, smiling.

"Is it happy hour?" The man belted out. I attempted my canned reply. Others had proposed a similar question before. I tried to explain that our establishment was interested in quality and service, but that we did not have a happy hour. He interrupted me. "Okay, Okay." He said, pulling me by my shirtsleeve closer to him, his breath was in my face, "It will be at this table." They broke into laughter. For a moment I resisted, and ignored it as just another lame joke I had no desire to hear, or had heard before.

"Okay, Okay, "He said. "We would both like Vodka. I would like Absolut and seven with a twist of lemon, and for my beautiful darling?" He looked at her just as she looked up. She was not timid. I could see in the way their eyes met that she really was his beautiful darling. I wished that she had been more beautiful. I could tell she was once a woman who must have made men turn and feel that hollowness in their stomach, but it seemed time had recaptured her into someone else. "I want vodka too. Over ice. In a pretty glass. With olives."

It was a rare moment where instead of just quickly defining a "pretty glass" in my mind on the way to put their order in the computer, I decided that she deserved a personalized description, so I stuck around, and we must have spent a good three minutes discussing the virtues of what made a pretty glass. She talked about how her mother used to collect glasses from all over the world, and that a pretty glassed enhanced the flavor of the cocktail. The way she explained it to me, I believed her, so I found one. Just right. A tall martini glass. I shined it, iced it, and even handpicked the ice cubes so that they fell in just right.

She smiled a tremendous smile. I could see the spaces in her teeth widen when she told me, "Perfect!"

The man looked up at me, "Okay Okay. We want two lobsters, but not for a while, not until after a few drinks." I felt the tugging again, the breath on my face. I lowered my ear. "I'll give you the nod!"

My station filled, and I paid them less and less attention as new tables demanded more. I liked spending time with them. I liked the way they treated me. They were having fun, but they didn't need me. They held hands and stared into each other's eyes. Each time I walked up they told me they were sorry, and that they couldn't help but hold hands.

Eventually, I got the nod from the man, and I brought them Lobster. They asked me to tie their bibs for them, and I did. They ate like it was their last meal. They asked for more butter three times, and they wiped each other’s chins with their napkins.

They sat and ate and enjoyed for a long time. They shared crème brulee. They drank espresso until finally I heard him say, "Okay okay, we'll take the bill." But first, the man pulled me closer and looked me in the eye. He told me he wanted to pay the check for a table of three young girls who they later met in the bar for more drinks.

I was printing the check and talking to my manager Janice, when it happened. I gave a quick glance back at my station, and I saw that each table was a couple. Each one was interacting differently. Man and woman. But in the center was the elderly couple. The other couples were together, but it seemed that they were a distant, separate, looking past each other as if they had nothing to offer but flesh, or a figure to sit across from them at meals. Someone to complain to. Someone to tell their friends about. People trying to look beautiful, alive. They were not lonely, but they were alone. The old couple though, they were One. Enmeshed. Singular. Hands intertwined. She had never known anyone else. They had never disagreed on worldview, never cheated on each other, never thought of anyone or anything else but each other. He was her soul mate, and she was his beautiful darling. Imagine what that must mean, to be someone's "beautiful darling." It seemed that she was his world and he was hers. I said good-bye, and I hoped that I would see them again.

Toward closing, the three young girls were still in the bar drinking wine. They stopped me and thanked me for introducing them to that dear couple who had graciously funded their late evening.

"They’re wonderful people aren't they?" I said with a smile on my face. They agreed. "And so sweet too." The youngest looked up at me, brushing her dark hair from her eyes, "And he even called me his beautiful darling. Isn't that sweet." I smiled, and walked back to the side station, a walk that at that moment, seemed just a little too far, where Janice was mulling over the computer with a frustration only made possible at the end of the night.

"Can you get me a bowl of chowder for the guy on table 63?" She blurted in panic.

"Sure thing my beautiful darling." And I walked to get the soup, not even looking back to see the confused look on her face.

I found myself disappointed because there had been more than one beautiful darling, but now, as I get a little bit older, I can see that maybe that kind of love and oneness isn’t meant to be isolated. Maybe it’s supposed to be shared. Maybe he sees all women as "beautiful darlings," and I don’t mean in the creepy sense, but instead, the universality of beauty, the joy of looking at each person as special and unique. When I think back to the way he said it, I knew that he meant it. That somehow his words were like solid pieces of driftwood in the flood, the real stuff you can grab on to when the water quickens its flow.

I think about that couple quite a bit. Whenever I am sitting down with my wife at a restaurant, I remember the way the old couple ate the lobster, enjoyed their drinks, and smiled at each other. Never once imagining that they could ever be alone. Knowing that no matter what, they wouldn’t let the other drown.

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